


Paper Boats on the Hudson

by NoChaser



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, I'm not a particularly good friend of Michael, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoChaser/pseuds/NoChaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their lives were like little paper boats, like the ones Gus folded and shaped and set out to sea at the park, no particular destination in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of hours, and not reach any destination. - Rabindranath Tagore ___

Part I

Their lives were like little paper boats, like the ones Gus folded and shaped and set out to sea at the park, no particular destination in mind. When the water was glassy and calm, the boats sailed side by side. When the water was disturbed, even with a little ripple, they separated and wandered, taking their own path of least resistance. At times, their paths would cross again. But there were long spaces of water where the boats would be out of sight of the other.

That was their life. Drifting with no particular destination in sight. No shore to aim for, no port in the storm. And the ripples... oh, there were ripples. Ripples left by bats and bombs, by cancer and California, by violins and viruses, by friends and enemies. And sometimes those last two were hard to distinguish from one another.

Justin was always waiting for the ripple. He'd become accustomed to the agitation of the water beneath his feet, his land legs unused for such long periods of time he imagined nautical vertigo. They'd had a long stretch of calm sea and their little paper boats were sailing side by side. It was inevitable that the ripple would come. It was only time. 

Surprisingly it was Ben who tossed the rock into the water, upsetting the surface. Justin couldn't blame him, after all he'd carried the boulder on his shoulders, like Atlas, for years now.

He left Michael. 

It was an angry, acrimonious split, to no one's surprise. Justin suspected it had been in the offing for some time. One can, apparently, only share the affections of a spouse for so long before there is little left to cling to. He was finally finished, Ben said, with Michael's feelings for Brian. He'd endured them for over five years and hadn't been able to wish them away. His own life was on a shortened course, and he didn't want to spend what was left of it playing second fiddle to 'the other man'. Justin couldn't help being slightly amused by the reference, given 'the other man's' distaste for that particular stringed instrument.

Debbie railed, Emmett consoled, Ted paid little heed, and Brian... well, he was Brian. Being so far away from the center of the non-tempest, Justin simply watched from the sidelines. New York had been a ripple in and of itself, one Justin had paddled against with a fervor he'd never known before. He'd tossed out tether line after tether line until Brian couldn't avoid catching one. They'd then ridden out the ripples, waited for the return of the calm sea, and sailed on. Side by side, Justin had thought, their little paper boats lashed together against inevitable onslaught.

When Ben sailed away in his own little boat, the inevitable wake rippled the smooth water yet again, with the force of a tsunami. Michael felt adrift, crashing himself into in whirlpool of insecurities and indecision and loneliness. He soon tossed out his own tether lines and moored himself against the object he felt was most secure.

By the time Justin realized the size of the waves crashing around them, the deed had been done and the entire horizon had been changed. It was, of course, Emmett who punched the fatal hole in Justin's vessel just before his return to Pittsburgh for the holidays. 

"There's something you should know, baby. I don't want you walking into anything without being prepared." 

That's how Justin came to understand the full impact of the tidal shift, the tectonic nature of change. Brian had comforted a drifting Michael in his own inimitable way. After more than twenty years, Michael had finally found his port. And Justin felt himself a castaway, lost on the island that his new home had become, the tethers connecting him to Brian being slowly slackened until the moorings weren't there at all. 

Brian had set Justin adrift in order to provide harbor to Michael. Such ironies life holds.

Justin stayed in New York for Thanksgiving. And for Christmas. And for New Year. Once in a while he'd wander down to the Hudson and set out a little paper boat, watch it sail and circle and, ultimately, sink alone into the icy, murky waters. It seemed fitting.

In February, Jennifer Taylor died. Tragically and unexpectedly, her car spun out of control on a patch of late winter ice and came to rest, a tangled mass of metal, against a nondescript abutment three blocks from her destination. It had been six months since Justin had seen her and he folded beneath the double burden of grief and guilt. But he pulled himself together enough to return to his home city to be by his sister's side and honor their mother. 

It was a small, private ceremony, none of them up to hosting wakes and viewings and condolence calls from friends and family and co-workers. He refused to think it was because he didn't want to face Deb. Or Brian.

The first night after his mother's burial, Justin huddled in the middle of her large bed, hiding himself beneath her blankets still filled with the scent of lavender and peony. He remembered every slight he'd given her, every moment of angst and tried so hard to recall a time when he'd actually made her proud. In his grief he couldn't think of one. He sank further into the soft comfort of her bed, which only increased the hardness of his missing her. He wept. 

He had boxed up some of Molly's things and took them with him when he visited the attorney's office. He left them there for his father to pick up. Justin didn't want to see the man, to be reminded of yet another loss. As he left the office he heard the voice he'd tried to forget for months.

"Justin." It was all Brian said.

"I have to go."

"I'm sorry... about your mother."

Justin laughed. A dry, barren sound. "Yeah, well, sorry's bullshit. Right? And neither she nor I need any more bullshit."

"Justin, hang on..."

"That's what I thought we were trying to do, Brian," Justin replied, irritated that his voice gave away a bit more hurt and anger than he was going for. "Apparently I was wrong... Leave me alone, Brian. I hope Rage and Zephyr have a marvelously fucked up life. JT has left the building." Justin turned and walked toward the double doors of the hi-rise building. There was nothing for him here but angst filled memories. 

"He was _alone _, Justin. He fell apart when Ben left..."__

Fuck. He should have just kept walking out the door, walking away from Brian, from Pittsburgh, from everyone who had ever meant anything to him. Why couldn't he just leave it the hell alone? Justin stopped and turned back toward Brian. He was so fucking elegant and beautiful and Justin had never hated anyone more than he did Brian Kinney right that minute. 

"Fuck you, Brian. Just fuck you. Michael did this to himself, brought every bit of this on himself with his fucked up fourteen year-old's fantasies. He threw Ben away and then went into self-pity mode. He parlayed that into a fulfillment of his childhood dream." Justin's voice rose with every sentence. "He's thirty six years old, and he was _not _fucking alone! He had Deb and Emmett and Ted and his daughter... He has no fucking idea what alone really means. Not a goddamned clue."__

Brian just stared at the anger radiating off of the man in front of him. This man he'd almost married. This man he'd pushed and pulled like a contortionist for so many years. He couldn't meet those eyes, so full of hurt and betrayal and disillusionment. This wasn't an Ethan moment and Brian knew that. Justin had done nothing to deserve the abandonment he'd received at Brian's hand. Nothing. The one who was really alone was Justin. No father, no mother, not even a sister now if dear old dad had anything to say about it... and no lover. Justin was entirely alone. And they both knew the fault for that lay at Brian's feet. The recognition of that stirred up Brian's defenses.

"What do you want me to say, Sunshine? You left and headed off to the big city. You were there... Michael was here." He shrugged. And yeah, he knew he was being a prick. It came naturally.

Justin smiled sadly and, before he turned away one last time from this man who had been his life, he said, "I just buried my mother, Brian. Neither you nor Michael should really expect any understanding from me right now." The young man squared his shoulders and walked out into the cold afternoon sun.

Jennifer had left her town-house to Justin, with all remaining property to be divided between her two children. She had placed Justin in control of Molly's share until she turned twenty-one. It was at least one way to insure that Justin remain in his sister's life, if only on the periphery, and Justin said a silent thank-you for his mother's foresight. His mother had been a frugal businesswoman and, though neither Justin nor Molly would be rich through her legacy, she had left them both comfortable. Justin would no longer have to work two jobs simply to pay the rent on his third floor walk-up.

Although he wanted nothing more than to leave Pittsburgh immediately and forever, to finally turn his back on all the heartache and pain he now associated with the city, Justin remained in town long enough to begin the sale of the real estate and disburse the contents. He sorted through old family photographs, mementos of younger and happier days, his emotions raw and naked in the face of what he would never have again. 

"I was hoping you were still here, Sunshine."

The voice was softer, gentler than he recalled, but it was unmistakeable. He mentally kicked his own ass for neglecting to lock the front door.

"Temporary situation, Deb. I'll be gone in a few days." Justin braced himself. The last thing he wanted to do right now, with his emotions at full mast, was to navigate the torturous waters of Debbie Novotny.

"You've been pretty scarce since you got back in town. Avoiding your family, Sunshine?"

"Jesus, Deb," Justin said with a painful sigh. "In case you've not heard, my family is pretty much all dead now."

"You know that's not true, Sunshine. You'll always be family to me. You're as much my son as..."

"Stop. Just... stop now." Deb was being sincere. Justin knew that, but he also knew she was wrong. He was not her family. Not anymore. Never had been, really. "You helped me so much when I needed it, and for that I'll always be grateful. But _they're _your family -- not me. And I'd appreciate it if you never called me that name again. Believe me, the Sunshine you knew ceased to exist several months back."__

"You hold it right there, young man. You will _always _be a part of my family, no matter _what _happens..."____

"No! I'm not, Deb. I'm not your family, not your son! I never was and I never will be." He hated hurting her and he could see that he was doing just that. But the truth had to be said. It certainly never had been before. "I'm not your son, adopted or otherwise. You know why?" He paused to hand Deb a tissue. "Because I'm a grown-assed man. An adult. And it seems to be a requirement for your _sons _that they remain children all their lives -- tied to some childhood fantasy regardless of who the hell they hurt in the process. To never be able to stand on their own two fucking feet and take the consequences of their actions like men. To never grow up and leave their childhoods behind them. To be _men _."____

"How the hell can you say that? They _are _men," Debbie cried. This was a boy she'd loved and taken under her wing. Someone she'd nurtured and cared for. But he was someone she just didn't seem to know anymore.__

"No, Deb, they aren't. They are emotionally stunted little boys playing dress up, battling to see who will play the rescuer and who will play the damsel in distress today. And fuck _anyone _who gets in the way of their infantile temper tantrums. They are judgmental, cruel, selfish brats." Justin took a deep, cleansing breath and walked toward the door. He held it open. "I think they truly deserve one another... And unless you want me to get into what part I believe you played in making them that way, I think you'd better leave now."__

Debbie stared, speechless, at this angry stranger. Her face blotched from tears, her makeup running down her cheeks, she pulled the lapels of her fuzzy red coat close to her body. "I don't know who the hell you are anymore, Sunshine."

Justin gave a wan smile. "I'm the man who was thrown overboard for your pretentiously needy son. The man who wasn't even given the respect of being told he was being dumped. I'm the son of a woman who died less than a week ago. But... I'm _not _Sunshine."__

Justin left Pittsburgh within hours of the closing on his mother's house. Unless Molly needed him, he'd made a promise to never set foot in that city again. He returned to his third floor New York walk-up and his part-time job at the gallery. He quit his job at Cobb's Steakhouse without notice. As the weeks passed, he was surprised at how seldom he thought of his Pittsburgh life. Of Brian. Betrayal, he found, was a great motivator for forgetting the good times. And the bad times... well... remembering those kept his mind off the loss. He dated occasionally, but never seriously. He wasn't one to trick. That had all been for Brian. He painted, he worked, he ate and slept. And if, on occasion, he wandered to the Hudson and set out little paper boats, there was no one there to question him. 


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was life. Work. Interlude. Michael.

_These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of hours, and not reach any destination. - Rabindranath Tagore_

Part II

Brian pulled off his gloves and laid them on the stool beside his briefcase. He placed his overcoat on top. The loft was quiet. Early evening shadows drifting through the window made it seem even more so. He pressed the button turning on the sound system, the smooth strains of jazz filling up the empty spaces around him. Walked to the bar and poured two fingers of bourbon and downed it before ever loosening his tie. Picked up the worn sketchbook he kept near his desk and flipped to the third page. This was his routine and his routine hadn't changed in months.

He knew he had, at most, an hour before the phone rang. The voice on the other end was never the one he wanted to hear, but it was the one he'd painfully chosen to listen to. So he'd spend that hour alternately tracing his fingers over the lines on the sketchbook page and listening to the wind rubbing itself against the large window. This was life. Work. Interlude. Michael. He'd stopped thinking of him as Mikey a while ago. He'd hoped that this would be enough. Enough to make Michael happy again. To make his own life bearable. To make the fucking guilt he felt at his unforgivable treatment of Justin fade into the night. 

From the moment he'd heard of Jennifer's death, heard that it was a private ceremony and none of the Liberty Avenue family had been asked to be there, Brian knew the final stake had been hammered into his heart. Justin had, understandably, severed his life from theirs. But Brian knew it was he who had cast the young man away, who had pushed him overboard and left him floundering without so much as a reason why. Brian had chosen Michael over Justin, his past over his future, and in the process had scarred Justin's memories of them. Like a coward, he had sacrificed his pride and his soul and his future to become someone he could barely stand to acknowledge. 

_I hope Rage and Zephyr have a marvelously fucked up life._

_Well, Sunshine, I think you've got it half right._

It didn't go without notice that there was little to no interference from the family into the quasi-relationship that Brian had begun with Michael. No one was betting on how long it would be before they broke up or when Michael would walk out or when Brian would kick him out. No one was handing out warnings of how Brian didn't do relationships or boyfriends or love. There were no detailed retellings of Brian's latest backroom extravaganza over puttanesca at the family dinner. Brian held his tongue, knowing the difference in his own behavior was just as strange. No passionate interludes between lovers that lent themselves to catcalls, no late arrivals with freshly fucked faces. Hell, Brian hadn't even had Michael spend the night at the loft. That was _his _space, his refuge. As time passed he even found himself touching Michael less and less. Michael, somehow, seemed blissfully unaware.__

Planning a trip to Toronto brought tension from the moment the idea arose. Michael insisted on going with Brian since both Gus and Jenny Rebecca were there. Brian had intended on going alone, to talk with Gus and ease him into the loss of Justin. 

“I have to talk with Gus, Michael.”

“Well, of course you do, Brian. I mean, that's why we're going, to visit with our kids.” 

“About Justin. I have to let him know why Justin isn't coming to see him.” 

Michael tensed, as he always did with the mention of Justin's name. 

“Jesus, Brian, he's not even seven. He'll get over it.” Michael's voice had risen. “You tell him we're a couple and that's how it is. He doesn't exactly get a say in this, you know!”

Images of Justin holding him, agonizing with him as he decided to hand over his son to Mel, of Justin babysitting the young boy, drawing with him, teaching him his colors and how to fold those little paper boats assaulted Brian. Michael's words demeaned everything that Justin had been to Gus! 

“First of all Michael, don't _ever _presume to lecture me on how to deal with _my _son. Gus loves Justin and he will mourn losing him, whether you want him to or not.” Brian paced the length of the loft before turning toward the bedroom. “Second, we are _not _a couple, Michael.”______

“The fuck we're not, Brian.”

“No, Michael. You _were _part of a couple! I _was _part of a couple! But we both sure as fuck screwed ourselves out of that. Now, we're just... two men who fuck each other.” Brian knew he'd gone too far when he glanced at Michael's face. He simply didn't know what to do any more. Didn't know where the lines were drawn, what the parameters were. This is why you don't fuck friends, he thought. It changes too much. “I love you Michael, I always have. But... I'm not now nor will I ever be in love with you. I've been there... I know the difference.” The ball was in Michael's court now. “Take it or leave it.”____

Brian went to Toronto alone. When he came home, little had changed with Michael, but much had taken place inside Brian. He couldn't do this dance with his old friend, he realized. Not on Michael's terms. He'd stuck with Michael – hell, he'd sacrificed his entire life for Michael – because the man had been a total wreck after his split with Ben. A split Michael had essentially caused himself. Rather than being forced to take responsibility for screwing up his own marriage, he'd been rewarded for it. Had been given the green light to do the very thing that caused his marriage to fail in the first place. To continue his obsession on Brian. And he'd taken to it with gusto. Oddly enough it had been Mel who'd taken the scales off Brian's eyes as they shared a beer alone together one evening. It was surprising how much better they got along when they didn't see each other often.

“I see Michael's keeping your dick on a shorter leash than Justin did, eh, Brian?” 

“Just because I won't let you play with my cock, Mel, doesn't mean its been taken out of the game.”

“Right,” she laughed. “Something does seem strange though.”

“What?”

“Just how fast Michael got over all that Ben's-gone-poor-me angst once you finally fucked him and fucked over Justin.” Mel tipped her bottle up and swallowed. She patted Brian on the shoulder and left him to his thoughts. 

Brian had always thought himself an astute man, someone not prone to being manipulated. Justin had often tried to point out how very easy he was to be manipulated by his friends, much to Brian's dismay. He was beginning to realize just how very wise Justin might have been. Fuck. Yes, Michael had become increasingly possessive once the initial fuck was a fait accompli. When he thought about it, Mel was right. Gone, seemingly in an instant, were the panic attacks and baleful tears, the depressive moods that had been a constant following Ben's departure. The ones that had pulled at Brian, that had compelled him to be there for his friend. Michael had always been so _vulnerable _in Brian's perception. He had to admit, though, that there was now a different kind of nerve beneath the childlike persona Michael had always shown. There was also the sudden, noticeable absence of Michael's constant caveats that _Brian Kinney didn't do boyfriends/relationships/dates/love...___

Regardless of what else was going on in the world, Brian was still Brian, the gang was still the gang, and Woody's was still Woody's. Brian seldom stepped foot inside Babylon, even though he'd rebuilt it. He probably should have left it as the pile of rubble and stones it had become through hate and bigotry. Michael had convinced him that it should be reborn, should rise from the ashes as a testament to the fortitude and courage of queers everywhere. Brian had gone to dance there only once. Now, he merely went to check on the nights' tallies or peruse the offerings in the backroom. 

Woody's was a different matter and he enjoyed the banter and bitchiness of Theodore and Emmett. Even Michael, from time to time. Tonight he needed more than that, however.

Brian couldn't miss the raised eyebrow, come-hither look from the dark haired man leaning against the bar. He also couldn't miss the hand resting on his thigh beneath the table. He pulled his leg away, stretching it out into the walkway. He nodded at the dark haired beauty and stood up. 

“You're not going with him,” Michael stated.

“Excuse me?”

“You're here with me, with us, tonight, Brian. You can trick on your own time.” 

“My _own time _, Michael?” Brian looked around as if confused. “And exactly when is my time _not _my own?”____

“You know what I mean, Brian.”

“Yeah,” Brian laughed softly, thinking back to his conversation in Toronto with Mel. “Yeah, I think I do.” He nodded to Emmett and Theodore, gave Michael a firm pat on the shoulder and walked out of Woody's alone. He knew if he stayed, he'd say something he could never take back. 

Brian Kinney had always been certain of a few things: that the sun rose and set on a pretty regular schedule, queers were meant to fuck, and there was an innate goodness in Michael Novotny. He'd always perceived a naive honesty in the man he had trusted and loved longer than any other. He'd _respected _him. Now he felt frozen, watching that respect evaporate, molecule by molecule, as he began to grasp the lengths to which his long-time friend had gone in manipulating him. The crying jags, the sudden bouts of anger and blame, the spiral into depression, the adamant refusal to seek any kind of help... and then the almost instantaneous 'recovery' when Brian had finally given into his pleas to 'just fuck me'. He'd fucking given up _everything _for a man who he now knew was incapable of moving beyond the unfinished hand-job of an adolescent. Brian had come to realize his friend had been unworthy of the sacrifice.____

And he'd hurt Justin, the most worthy man he knew. Maybe irreparably.

Jesus.

So he sat in the aching emptiness of his loft, listening to the wind and running his fingers over the ghosts of what had been and waited for the phone to ring. Hearing Justin's words from months ago in his head over and over – _I hope Rage and Zephyr have a marvelously fucked up life... He has no fucking idea what alone really means _. And if he now let the call go to voice mail, there was no one there to question him.__


	3. Part III

_These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of hours, and not reach any destination. - Rabindranath Tagore _  
__

Part III

Daphne ran her hands across her friend's shoulders as they looked out over the darkening water. Justin had become obsessed with the river – she'd figured that out a while ago. She could almost understand why, the way it must play with his emotions and his artist's sensibilities. It was at once a thing of immense power and clandestine beauty. It wasn't truly a place of recreation and Daphne wasn't sure if it ever had intended itself to be. It was a working waterway in this part of the city, a transport lane for freight to be hauled in and waste to be hauled out. The fish that had managed to acclimate to the toxins oozed out from the bowels of old freighters were of a heartier breed than any angler would care to claim, and certainly would not end up on anyone's dinner table. Concrete walls and rusting abutments had replaced what vegetation may once have stood on its banks. 

No, the Hudson in late summer wasn't exactly a day at the beach, but it had become a comfort to Justin. He'd talked at length about watching the tankers or the opposing skyline distort through the shimmer of heat that hovered just above the water's surface, that he sometimes imagined it was all hallucination. He wasn't really in New York, he would tell Daphne, not standing beside a polluted waterway. He was in Pittsburgh, playing with a younger Molly beside the small pond his mother used to take them to. There would be a picnic and games of chase, with the little girl squealing as she was scooped up and tossed in the air by her big brother. She would hug him tightly and call him Jester and fall asleep on his shoulder as the sun sank behind the tree line. 

It had been months since he'd see her, since they'd buried their mother and rearranged their lives forever. He'd called her once, in March, and they'd talked about school and her crush on Casey and missing their mom. When he called again in April the phone number had been changed. Unlisted. So Justin began to write. Instead of a reply, he got returned letters. It all broke Daphne's heart and she cursed the hateful man who'd been Justin's father. 

“I'm thinking we should head over to Tellie's for awhile,” Daphne said which a shrug against Justin's shoulder. “You know, for a drink and a game of darts?” 

“You're only in the city for the day, Daph, and you want to spend it at a cheap bar tossing darts?” He grinned. “I figured you'd at least want to go somewhere you could find a half-naked guy.”

“Yeah, well... half-naked guys are so over-rated.” What she really wanted was to stick a picture of Craig Taylor on the bulls-eye. Or maybe one of Brian. Didn't matter. Either one should improve their dart game a bit. “Now... if you know a place where there are _totally_ naked guys...”

“You slut!” Justin punched her lightly on the arm and laughed just a little. “So... Tellie's it is,” he said, and rested his head against her curly hair. “Something I want to do first, though.”

Justin took a well-traveled envelope from his pocket and opened it. _Hey, Mollusc_. He had practice now, creating his boats. Knew exactly on which line he should crease left and on which he should crease right. Knew how many folds to make quickly and exactly where to tuck in the ends. _Love, Jester_. He'd perfected the placement of the letters and wondered if he'd known somehow when he'd written those words if he should sign his name _just there_ so it would work out like this. 

He finished folding and tucked a candle in one end, lit it, and set the little paper boat out onto the Hudson. “Happy birthday, Molly.”

Mr. Marcuso nodded as Justin walked up the final steps to his apartment. The smell of oregano seeping through the man's open doorway competed with the odors of the Hudson and Tallie's still lingering on Justin's clothes and made him a little nauseous. “Share lasagna tonight, Justin?” Justin thanked him and promised, perhaps, another night. Mr. Marcuso nodded again and looked worried. Justin knew it was because they always spent Friday evening together and he was turning him down again. It had been weeks since he'd visited with the old man and he felt a little guilty about that. He didn't make friends easily of late and, his visit with Daphne today aside, he hated to ignore the few he already had. It was always just a little too much for him on lasagna night, though, and Mr. Marcuso always plied him with too much wine – Justin got melancholy with wine these days. He turned the keys in the locks and pushed open his own door and thought he'd had enough melancholy today. 

He'd come to appreciate his battered little walk-up, with the hints at an outdated beauty it no longer had. It was small and there was a crack in the ceiling about three inches from the south wall. The window air conditioning unit cooled sporadically in summer and the radiator heat didn't quite reach the middle of the room in winter. But it was safe and affordable and his. That was all that mattered. It was his cocoon, a chrysalis where he worked on shedding his old skin and finding his wings. As he glanced at his easel, with yet another painting in which there were no tones of green or gold or brown, he didn't think he was succeeding so well at that. 

. 

Emmett laughed at something and Theodore blushed. Brian thought it almost... _charming_ that anyone could still blush in this day and age. He had just enough wine in him tonight to think words like charming were... charming. He'd come to detest this house which had been his haven for so many years, to dread this ritual of the family dinner. What had once embraced him now felt claustrophic. Certainly felt forced. He poured himself another drink and counted all the chairs nobody used anymore. Debbie had never gotten around to condensing the table for her get-togethers, even though Vic was no longer with them. Or the girls and Gus. Or... Brian closed his eyes and swallowed his wine. 

“Oh! Oh! I was looking over my old diary today. Did you all know I kept a diary?” Emmett clapped his hands above the plate of Debbie's lasagna. His enthusiasm became a thing unto itself when he was drinking. “Well, I do, and my _diary_ says it was exactly six years ago today that we took that little road trip.” A sudden silence descended over the table, which Emmett misinterpreted and simply had to fill with more words. “You know, the one all us boys took to New York?” He then caught Brian's eyes. Maybe Emmett hadn't misinterpreted at all. 

“Em,” Theodore cautioned, “I don't think...”

“We should all do that again!” Emmett tipped his glass back and finished off the remainder of his wine. “Don't you think so?” 

There was a scraping of wood on linoleum, a clatter of metal on melmac and a labored “No, we _don't_ think so, Emmett,” as Michael stormed toward the front of the house. Brian rolled his tongue in his cheek and caught the slight upward curve of Emmett's mouth just as Debbie waved her finger in Brian's face and hissed, “Fix this!”

Brian patted his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. One could almost hear Emmett gloat as Brian popped a Marlboro between his lips, pulled car keys from his jeans and headed for the door. 

“And just where do you think you're going?” Brian shook Debbie's hand from his arm and looked up the stairs into Michael's defiant eyes. He brought his gaze back to the questioning woman before him, the grand dame of her little family. He saw the hurt and anger, the challenge on her face. He didn't need to hear the words to know she was daring him to walk out that door and hurt her son. Her _only_ son, no matter how quickly she'd deny that claim if asked. Brian had no doubt Debbie loved him. She loved them all. But, whether she'd admit it or not, all her _other_ sons were merely outliers, a floatilla meant to circle around for the protection of Michael. 

Brian turned his eyes to Emmett, caught the slight smile and gentle nod, and wondered when the man had become so fucking wise. He gave his own wan smile and a small, ironic laugh before looking back up at Michael. He answered Debbie's question as he held Michael's gaze – “To try and fix my fucked up mess.”


	4. Part IV

_These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of hours, and not reach any destination. - Rabindranath Tagore_

Part IV

There is that short series of days when summer begins its passage into fall, when the presence of green eases into a promise of scarlet and umber. One could almost miss that shift in a city as encased in brick and steel as New York. But Brian could sense it as he stood in the recess of a storefront across from an old brownstone as the sun began to rise. He shivered a bit. He was pretty sure it wasn't from the slight chill of the early morning. 

He'd driven through the night to stand at _this_ particular spot at _this_ particular time and hoped that Justin was as much a creature of habit as he'd always been. That he'd duck out of the apartment early and make the round of coffee-house and newspaper stand before heading into the gallery. He'd always wanted to get there early on Saturday, get his work done quickly and make the weekend as long as possible. Then again, that was back when Brian was actually coming to spend the weekend with him. Brian leaned his head back against the gritty brick wall and wondered how he'd gotten to the point that he was skulking outside of Justin's apartment; how he'd let his life – hell, _everyone's_ life – get so fucked up. 

.

Justin grabbed his light jacket and his messenger bag, keys and a small scroll of art paper. He'd spent the night not sleeping. It had been one of those evenings that was too cool for the air conditioner and too humid for an open window and he'd felt a bit suffocated with the lack of circulating air. The sheets had wrinkled beneath him oddly and he'd felt every crease, every fiber before he'd given up the pretense that he was going to rest, and finished a drawing of Dolcezza. It had been a spur of the moment project pulled out of the the need to offer some kind of apology to Mr. Marcuso for his lack of attention the past few weeks. He'd almost abandoned the effort when he'd found himself penciling browns and golds into the large green eyes of the petite, white cat.

Justin grinned as he attached the scrolled paper to the message hook under the number 3-C and watched Dolcezza's delicate paw try to sneak its way out beneath his neighbor's closed door. Perhaps not a wasted night after all. 

.

He'd been waiting for over an hour when he finally saw Justin step out of the door and down the few steps, turning right on the sidewalk. Brian ditched his half smoked cigarette and pushed off the brick wall, hesitant to follow, yet eager as well. He wasn't even sure what he'd say to Justin. How does someone who never apologizes begin the apology of a lifetime? Is there anything that can be said to make up for this kind of abandonment, this measure of stupid cruelty? Somehow Brian didn't think a shrug and an 'I fucked up' was going to be enough this time. 

Justin knew he was there somewhere. Could feel him in the air like a brittle jolt of electricity and he wasn't sure if he should quicken his steps or simply stop and confront him. He decided the former would do little good if Brian was already here in the city, so Justin chose to confront. “What do you _want_ from me!?” He all but screamed out the words as his body came to a full stop. “What the hell _else_ can you want from me?”

Brian was a good twenty paces behind when Justin stopped. He slowed his own step when he was a few feet away, his arms held out at his sides in supplication. He knew he would beg if it came to that. “I don't know.”

Justin turned his head slightly, never fully facing Brian. He didn't want to see him, didn't want to have this encounter at all. Damn him. Just... _damn_ him. Justin gripped his hands into fists, his right aching from drawing most of the night. As he shook out the pain he began to laugh dryly. “You know? At least Hobbs didn't tell me he loved me first.” 

Brian watched Justin walk on as the impact of the words sank in. 

_Jesus..._

What the fuck had he done? 

.

“I'm a coward and an insufferable asshole, Justin.” Brian sat down on a broken piece of the river wall, a few feet away from where Justin had finally come to rest. “Pretty much always have been.” He knew Justin was miles beyond hurt and angry and didn't really expect any kind of response. Nonetheless, it hurt that Justin simply accepted his words without comment. “But even with the worst of my faults, I hope you can believe I'm nothing like him.”

Justin made a derisive sound. “With the exception of the wardrobe and your lack of community service, I'm hard pressed at the moment to see much difference.” For the first time he met Brian's eyes. He paused for a long look. “What is it you want, Brian?” 

Brian struggled with how to answer Justin. Even knowing what was at stake, that he was here to somehow fix this fucked up situation with their lives, it was still difficult for Brian to put his thoughts and emotions into words. How could he, with all his many limitations, explain to Justin what he wanted without feeling less of a man than he already did? “What do I want? … To erase the last year – turn back the clock – fix this mess.” He couldn't miss the hurt and anger that hid in Justin's eyes and he had no idea how to get past that. 

“Right,” Justin spat and pulled the bag from his shoulder. “Something tells me that if life with Michael had been just a bit less demanding, just a bit more exciting, you'd still be in Pittsburgh! Following the dictates of your _family_... Because _that's_ what you do.” And it was, Justin knew. Brian had never been able to pull himself away from the influence that Debbie and Michael had over him. Didn't matter, though. Brian had made his choice, made _their_ choice.

Justin pulled a few sheets of paper from his messenger bag and did what he always did when he sat in this particular spot. He folded his boats. Brian watched in silence as the artistic hands flew, creating the small vessels, confused by the seemingly calm actions when his own soul felt like it was being sucked out through his balls. He wanted to disagree with Justin about his comments – thought about it – but he was on tenuous ground. He wasn't here to plead his own case. He was here, hopefully, to begin some kind of mending of the gigantic rift he'd placed between them, if that was even possible. Even though Justin knew parts of Brian that no one else ever would know – those gentler parts – Justin had recoiled when Brian had shown them. How would Justin react if Brian figuratively threw himself at the other man's feet and begged for forgiveness? 

Regardless of how much he wanted it, he wasn't at all certain that Justin would ever forgive him, or that he should. So he sat and quietly watched in bizarre fascination as he continued. When Justin had finished, he reached over and easily set one small white ship out onto the murky water. 

“Look at it.”

“What?”

“The boat, Brian,” Justin commanded. 

Brian huffed out an incredulous little laugh, suddenly wondering whether the past year had sent Justin into some level of insanity. Wondering if he'd finally broken this beautiful man beyond all repair. He wanted to play with toy boats like they were at the park with Gus? Christ... Still, he turned and watched the paper ship as it slowly drifted, bobbing slightly up and down until it was caught in the fading wake of a slow moving tanker. Once caught, it let itself be pulled into the flow of the water, giving over whatever autonomy it had to a force greater than itself. Letting itself be towed away from a safer harbor. 

“Do you see it?” Justin pointed to the boat being pulled further out. His voice was strangely flat. 

“Yeah, I see it.”

“It always does that... takes the path of least resistance, following along ignorantly in the wake of a more compelling force,” Justin explained, rather clinically. “Its path won't change at all until that force stops pulling it along, or until a stronger force tugs it in another direction.” Justin leaned his weight forward, pressing his body toward the water, straining to keep his vessel in sight. And Brian was struggling to figure out what this all meant. “ _You_ took the path of least resistance, Brian,” Justin said after a long pause. “Never fought against the current, never looked to find a way out of the thrall of whatever power was pulling you along.”

“I did what I thought was best.”

Justin shook his head and laughed. “Christ, I can't believe this.” He shouldered his bag and stood, facing Brian. “Brian... I should already be at work. Just go home. Go home to Michael and leave me alone.” 

.

By noon Justin had called it quits on trying to concentrate on work and just headed home. Damn fucking Brian. _I was doing what I thought was best_. Bastard. The man was either a liar, a fool or just exceptionally cruel. After the past year, Justin was leaning toward a combination of the last two. There was never really a question about whether he loved Brian. He had from the first night they'd met. That was just a fact. Like winter follows fall, Justin Taylor loves Brian Kinney. What confused Justin was this newly found ability to hate him just as much simultaneously. 

The second time he'd ever seen Brian, Justin had ended up in tears, his heart ripped apart and dangling precariously from one sleeve. It was just a fuck, Brian had told him, and love was simply some handy illusion straight people hid behind so they could feel better about the pain they inflicted upon each other. Now, here he was... six years later and a hundred years older, wondering why he couldn't have just believed Brian's shit in the first place. Would have saved everyone a hell of a lot of pain in the long run. 

He wished he could say he'd finally learned those lessons, the ones Brian had tried to teach him years ago. That he'd finally _got it_. But he couldn't and he hadn't. And it pissed him off that his heart was still hanging there on that fucking sleeve, clinging by a single bloody thread. It really fucking pissed him off that merely seeing Brian could bring it all to the surface.

He laid his bag on the counter in the kitchen, sorted his mail and pulled out a beer from the fridge. 

“You got another one of those?”

Justin jumped. “Jesus fuck, Brian! How did you get in here?”

“Mr. Marcuso.” The man had always liked Brian. “I... We can't leave things they way they are.” 

“You won't be happy until you completely break me, will you, Brian?” Justin's shoulders slumped as if a great weight was bearing down on him. “Congratulations. You're pretty goddamned close to nirvana.”

Brian walked slowly and stood beside Justin, close enough to touch him. God, he wanted to touch him. But he didn't. “I'm sorry, Justin... I'm so fucking sorry.”

“You want forgiveness? Is that it?... Okay. Consider yourself absolved,” Justin said quietly. “Now get the hell out of my home.”

Ignoring the angry command, Brian sat at the kitchen table. He needed to put some space between them as he began to speak. “When Ben left, I knew I was responsible. And you were right earlier – I took the easy way out when Michael and Deb started in on me.” He caught Justin's wary look. “It was easier to let them manipulate me, yet again, into being what they wanted than it was to hang onto you – to be what you needed... And being a coward cost me the most important person in my life, Justin.” 

Justin had only seen Brian close to tears once before. _I was so fucking scared_. He could almost feel that same fear rolling off of Brian now. He wished it was enough. But it wasn't. “What am I supposed to do here, Brian? Fall back into bed for a fuck? Tell you that none of this year's pain matters? That we can pick up where we left off and live out our fairy tale in some ivory condo in Tribeca?”

“No.” Brian stepped over and stood in front of Justin, running his thumb across that face he'd missed. “No, I don't think we could ever pick up where we left off, because we left off in a pretty fucking dismal place,” he admitted. “Maybe we could... start over.”

“I can't go through this again, Brian. There's too much anger and hurt here... And I don't ever want to see or hear of Michael Novotny again.” 

“Can I ask you one question?” Justin nodded, warily. “Do you still love me at all?”

Justin sighed. “That's never been the problem, Brian. But loving you doesn't mean I'll ever trust you again... You betrayed me in a way I don't know I'll be able to get over and a large part of me hates you for that.” He saw Brian cringe slightly and felt his own pang of guilt. 

“I know... but I once told you I'd do anything, be anything for you.” They both actually smiled a little at that memory as Brian continued. “It took me a while to figure out just what that means... I have issues to deal with, Justin. I know that. Ones that I should have dealt with twenty years ago.” He took Justin's face in both hands and whispered, “Please...”

.

Justin watched the little paper vessel floating out on the Hudson, ducking in and out of the wake of a small motor boat. This one Brian had fashioned. He gazed over at him and saw the hope on his face as he watched the catamaran on the water. Two little boats, cinched together so they couldn't separate when a force pulled one side or the other. It was merely symbolic, they both knew. It really meant nothing about the chances of them even being friends in the long run. But... maybe it was a start. 

Fini.

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT a WIP. Four parts, will be updated regularly.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.


End file.
